


Latency

by thirstysixdegrees (Phoeliac)



Series: You Never Go Full Sugar Daddy [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Canon Age Yuuri, M/M, Older Victor, Sexual Content, Yuri!!! on Ice Kink Meme
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-20
Updated: 2017-09-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 20:05:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12140109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoeliac/pseuds/thirstysixdegrees
Summary: Victor is thirty-nine when he falls in love for the first time. He figures it’s only fair he’s a late bloomer atsomething.(Or: Victor meets Yuuri much later in his life. They fall in love just the same.)Russian Translation availablehere, thanks toWTF_Yuri_on_Ice_2018!





	Latency

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Latency](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13708998) by [mommy_Vulture](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mommy_Vulture/pseuds/mommy_Vulture), [WTF_Yuri_on_Ice_2018](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WTF_Yuri_on_Ice_2018/pseuds/WTF_Yuri_on_Ice_2018)



> So this was going to be a straight-up smut fill for a request for 40-ish Victor and Canon Age Yuuri having an age-difference kink, but it proceeded to turn into something else.
> 
> My brain apparently saw "age difference kink pwp pls" and went "ah yes, victor who's utterly in love with yuuri but kinda insecure about his age!"
> 
> This is the result.

Victor is thirty-nine when he falls in love for the first time. He figures it’s only fair he’s a late bloomer at _something_.

 Victor is tired and lonely and utterly preoccupied with the fact that in under a year he’ll be older than he ever imagined being. Four decades of existence divided into halves: one a torrent of achievement, the other a prolonged disappearing act. He feels old, when he feels anything at all. His life has been nothing but the ice, and he feels the cold seeping into the aching of his bones. In the absence, the empty spaces he surrounds himself with.

Katsuki Yuuri is a thunderbolt, a lightning strike, and in the space of a night, Victor comes to life.

His feet find the crack in the pavement, the roll in the carpet, and for the first time in nearly forty years, he trips. Headlong, wholehearted, into strong arms and a brilliant smile.

Then he just sort of...keeps falling.

  
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

“I had a crush on Victor Nikiforov,” Yuuri tells Phichit at the start of a drinking game - rules too complex for Yuuri to follow,  barely one drink in.

He’s known Phichit about two weeks and already knows that he’s going to be a permanent fixture. They clicked, in that way that someone as introverted as Yuuri knows means they have something, a connection that extends beyond exchanging social media links. They’re going to be friends, he realised within days of meeting Phichit, and it’s this, rather than the alcohol that has him later recanting, smiling, shaking his head and admitting:

“I still have a crush on Victor Nikiforov.”

Phichit pats him on his arm and tells him that everyone has a crush on Victor Nikiforov. 

Yuuri doesn’t know how to explain that they don’t. That everyone has a crush on the charming, fey young man who won five Grand Prix Finals in a row - the echo, the shadow of his past.

 

Yuuri doesn’t know how to explain that he likes Victor as he is.

  
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

 _Sixteen years_ , Victor reminds himself every time he bumps into Yuuri looking sleep-rumpled and lovely in the inn’s tiny hallways.

_Sixteen years is longer than Yurio’s been alive._

Yuuri, first thing in the morning, is glorious. He has creases on his cheeks from his pillow and he smiles, unguarded, when Victor chirps “good morning”. His heart aches, treacherously at the sight of him. He’s gorgeous, and stubborn, and a constant mystery, and Victor hasn’t wanted so badly in nearly four decades of living.

 _In the time between his birth and Yuuri’s they could have grown another Yurio,_ he thinks, trying very hard not to stare where Yuuri’s shirt has rucked up his side, leaving one hip exposed.

Victor’s had nightmares about the former, and a recent spate of dreams about the latter that leave him gasping and painfully hard. Mostly, he’s been lying awake at night, listening to Yuuri fidgeting in his sleep one room away. Makkachin does her best, a comforting weight next to him, but she’s also as taken with Yuuri as he is; she slips into Yuuri’s room without so much as a guilty glance back.

She leaves him without anything to distract him from the source of his sleeplessness.

(When he does sleep there’s lightness in the joints that have weighed him down for years, a dance partner who knows his steps before he makes them, and dark eyes boring into him, burning him up.)

Breakfast is a particular form of torture, sitting across from Yuuri and having an unobstructed view of him before he’s fully awake. Victor’s taken to counting to ten in his head before saying anything out loud. Like that Yuuri’s perfect, that he’s the electric charge that’s risen Victor from his grave, that Victor wants very much to put his face against that sliver of exposed collar bone above his bed shirt and set up home there. Victor wants Yuuri to know all these things - wants so much for him to understand just what Yuuri is to him, but he’s also been in Hasetsu long enough to know how much that’d scare Yuuri. It’d push him back, hermit crab-like, into his own shell.

Want twists in his gut, leaving him helpless in the face of Katsuki Yuuri blinking blearily into his breakfast - there’s a lock of hair behind his right ear that curls out, defiantly, and his fingers itch to tuck it back.

Instead, Victor smiles into his tea and feels like the old fool Yuri Plisetsky calls him.

  
  
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

Yuuri reaches, and he falls so short he feels he might as well cut off his own limbs; cut himself into pieces so small no one can see his mediocrity. He is offered a photo and all he can do is catalogue the lines on that handsome face. He takes a picture in his own memory, and shreds it in the shadow of his mind.

There’s ideas, and there’s fantasies, but those suggest _wanting_ and Yuuri - Yuuri doesn’t deserve to want now.

He packs those thoughts away, relegates himself to Everyone; it was impossible, presumptuous, to think he might catch up to a man who finished the race before Yuuri even began chasing.

(In packing up he comes across one fantasy, one little piece of mental theatre he can’t bring himself to give up and tucks it away; a silly, sultry little thing, featuring Yuuri at seventeen and Victor, in his final year before injury forced him out, and if Yuuri still finds himself leaking at the idea, takes himself in hand, no one has to know.)

 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

Sometimes Victor looks and finds Yuuri looking back at him. Has to stop, momentarily caught in the intensity of his scrutiny.

Yuuri looks at Victor like he sees right through him, like he’s stripping away the designer clothes, the awards, the hard-earned status. It’s miles away from the way Yakov’s students look at him - halfway studious, halfway starstruck.

Yuuri listens - every inch of him turned attentively toward him, hanging off Victor’s every word when he’s in coach mode -  but his eyes are somewhere else, somewhere deep inside Victor’s shape and soul. He’s reminded of the first time he met Yakov. Being studied by a gaze that’s impassive but not unfair.

Victor feels exposed and _free_ , and he wants Yuuri to never look at him any other way.

It’s painful to think that the Yuuri he met at the banquet isn’t real, was destined to come into his life for one night, before fading into non-existence. That Victor is fated to know breathlessness, that sort of unbidden joy for one fleeting moment. But watching Yuuri grow, become more aware of his own worth is, in its own way, completely worth the agony of getting to be so close to him, of just knowing him.

He’s utterly smitten, and utterly stupid, and Yuuri deserves nothing but the best; deserves a whole life with some other, equally stunning, pretty twenty-something. Not whatever Victor can give him before he pales into complete insignificance - if he’s not already halfway there.

Victor isn’t keen on torturing himself, but when it comes to Yuuri, he finds he can’t quite help it.

So when Yuuri realises Victor’s noticed him looking, then flushes and cuts his gaze away, Victor can’t help the tiny shiver of pride, of smug delight that spreads through him. It’s like coming in from the cold; the coy little look Yuuri shoots him, when he thinks Victor’s not looking; the open, appraising stare when he’s stretching in the onsen, that very carefully follows the line of Victor’s body then jolts back up to his face; the way Yuuri’s eyes find Victor, liked a fixed point, always coming back to him even after hours of revolutions on ice, or circuits of the town, or of playing fetch with Makkachin.

Victor starts to stretch just a little longer, bask in Yuuri’s covert peering for a moment more, before he fixes Yuuri with his own spotlight stare. Smiles wide and whatever flirtation comes tumbling out of his mouth, he stands by.

Yuuri stops looking away when he’s caught, and it’s when he matches Victor’s stare that he realises - _oh, that night was real._

  
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

Victor Nikiforov looks Good For His Age. It’s a whole thing. He regularly makes Top Ten Most Handsome lists, albeit with more use of the word “distinguished” than Yuuri really thinks he deserves (because look, he might be a fanboy, but even he draws a line somewhere.)

The benefits of a career spent carving himself into his absolute best obvious in the still sharp cut of him, the softness of age only beginning to blur the edges of his athletic frame. Yuuri has, in the past, wished he pulled off the off-peak softness half as well as Victor does.

Up close, in person, Victor is...striking. Handsome, yes, in a boyish way - and the floppy, foppish curtain of his fringe doesn’t help with that -  but much more _interesting_ to look at than actually aesthetically pleasing. Yuuri imagines he can read a lifetime into the blank page of Victor’s face.

His eyes crease when he smiles, even, fractious lines seeming to crack his face in two - like smiles came easy, even if the feeling behind them didn’t. There’s a particular crease under each eye, that has him constantly looking ever so slightly world-weary.

Yuuri occasionally daydreams about reaching out to smooth it, running his thumb over it and watching some of the weight, the burden that seems to sit permanent on Victor’s shoulders ebb away with each stroke.

For the most part, Victor matches Yuuri pace for pace, step for step. What he can’t match is mired in his knee, his hip - and Yuuri doesn’t dare ask, to coddle those. He remembers the shattering news, the furore in the fandom when Victor’s career - already stretched beyond what anyone expected of it - was ended by injury rather than satisfaction, hand forced by the shattering of a whole other limb.

(“Don’t grow old, Yuuri”, he says as he props his leg up after practice, light tone undercut by something stony, something glacial underneath, “it doesn’t do anyone any good.”)

( _It did you good_ , Yuuri thinks, mutinously, staring at the side of Victor’s face when he’s chatting with Minako in the inn; Minako catches Yuuri’s eye and raises her eyebrows knowingly, making him flush and frown into his pitifully leafy, green dinner.)

The fact is, Victor Nikiforov from afar, is a charming, good looking man. He’s the subject of crushes and romantic fantasies the world over, and Yuuri thought maybe his own slightly embarrassing feelings on the matter would fade, would become little more than a factual recognition of another human being’s relative attractiveness with exposure to the actual man.

Instead, Victor is, in reality, _incandescent_. Craggy and animated and so comfortable in his frame that Yuuri’s not sure if he should desire him or envy him.

He notices the occasional grimace when Victor bends, the way he holds his phone so far from his face that Yuuri has, twice now, only _just_ managed to bite his tongue on the offer to read it out for him. He’s crotchety and starey before he has his morning tea. He deliberately misuses memes when he thinks it’ll annoy Yurio, or the triplets, or, on one occasion, Yuuri, before Yuuri was awake enough to realise he was being messed with (he couldn’t be annoyed, not when Victor smiled at him so brightly, eyes shining, laughter lines framing his glee so perfectly.)

Sometimes he watches Yuuri and Yuuko with something Yuuri thinks might be...wistfulness? Something distant and soft, but so sad it makes Yuuri’s breath stutter all the time.

Victor is nearly a decade older than Mari.

Yuuri is so attracted to him it _hurts_.

And somewhere along the way, between sneaking glances and trying to tap into the fantasies and adolescent daydreams for the sake of Eros, he realises that Victor is attracted to _him_.

He wakes earlier than Victor - in itself unusual - and jogs to the Ice Castle to get some time alone on the ice. Hacking the anxious tack of his thoughts into his movements, the cut of his skates splitting his thoughts at the seams.

Thoughts of Victor leaning close at dinner the previous night - jinbei open and Yuuri trying so, _so_ hard not to stare down the material shifting like semaphore, signalling that Victor’s chest was _right there_ and _how hard was it to tie your top shut anyway?_. The slow, syrup-like curve of Victor’s mouth when Yuuri’s eyes finally slipped down, then snapped back up to find Victor watching him.

He nearly falls over in the middle of the rink - and in his mind he hears the wobbling, reverberating sound of an American cartoon as he slams to a stop.

He stays like that, breathing heavy and staring sightlessly ahead with dawning understanding - the heavy implication of Victor’s smirk, his stare, his endless looming into Yuuri’s personal space. Yuuri clutches his shirt, clasping the material over his thudding heart; his breath doesn’t slow, and he feels like he’s just run the longest, steepest race to realisation.

It’s how Victor finds him, not long later; calls out a cheerful greeting, smile turning worried when he takes in Yuuri’s position.

Yuuri snaps out of his stupor, waves off his concern and comes to meet him by the rinkside. Something like anticipation creeping over him; he imagines he can see in Victor’s assessing look that he knows, that he can tell Yuuri’s realised.

It feels new, different, but also like nothing’s changed.

Victor gives him a look that’s unbridled affection, and Yuuri -

Yuuri stands closer, returns his gaze, and okay. Yes. He can do this. He doesn’t have to quash this, ignore, deny it:

He’s attracted to Victor - and that's okay, because Victor’s attracted to him too.

  
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

They celebrate silver in China with drinks. Not too many, at Yuuri’s request, but enough that everyone is a little louder, a little looser. It’s...nice. Easy-going. Their friends are chatting and laughing around them, and Yuuri is a happy bundle under Victor’s arm.

Victor looks at him, for no reason other than he likes to look at Yuuri.

Yuuri turns from the conversation - which has somehow transformed into a competition between Phichit and Christophe involving social media and far too many rules for Victor to keep track - and traps Victor in his stare. It’s sudden, to go from watching to being watched; Victor’s heart jumps in his chest and he knows, he _knows_.

Everything around them becomes immaterial, jetsam. Victor watches the anticipation drip, treacle-thick, in Yuuri’s eyes. He lets his hand trace absent lines against Yuuri’s shoulder, fingers tightening, holding onto him with just a fraction of the desperation Yuuri inspires in him. Yuuri swallows and Victor leans closer, considers the magnetic pull of Yuuri’s mouth.

It’s red, chewed so by anxiety, and damp from the half-drunk beer between them on the table. Yuuri has the prettiest mouth Victor’s ever seen and he wants so much that it’s a pit, a yawning chasm cracking open in his stomach.

Victor wants to kiss Yuuri more than he’s wanted anything in his life.

Yuuri looks up at him from under his eyelashes, and Victor is helpless but to follow, to answer his silent, siren call. He tilts his head down at the same time Yuuri turns his face up - he counts every fleck of shadow in those eyes, the fathomless depths he feels himself falling into - and slowly, inevitably, they collide.

He kisses sweetness into Yuuri, the soft affection he wants to wrap him in, armour him against the gremlins of his own mind. He can’t register more than the warmth, the heat bleeding through Yuuri into him, and he forgets how to breathe. Yuuri hums, happily, when Victor pulls back.

Then he licks his lips.

This time Victor kisses him with _intent_.

He curves his free hand around Yuuri’s jaw, maps the line of it as if he didn’t already know each inch without looking. Strokes, reaches, with shaking fingertips - shaking because Yuuri opens his mouth and _traces the bow of Victor’s top lip with his tongue_.

Victor groans. The sound is a shared vibration between them and Victor has no idea why he doubted this, why he’d ever doubt Yuuri wanted just as much as he did. Yuuri’s hands slide up his chest, his neck, thumbs coming to rest at the divot beneath his throat. His fingers are steady.

Yuuri kisses like it’s all he knows how to do.

Victor, in the moments he’s capable of thought, thinks he could die happy like this; making out with Katsuki Yuuri in a cramped booth. Instead, he tightens his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. Yuuri presses closer, Victor slides his other hand down his chest, his belly, under the hem of his shirt, hungry for touch - for touching Yuuri any way he can.

Yuuri, perfect, diabolical Yuuri, makes the most amazing sound he’s heard a human make while fully clothed.

Victor’s new goal in life (for however long this kiss lasts) is to make Yuuri make that sound again. He’s considering if adding a hint of teeth is the best way to go about that, when the click of a camera phone interrupts them. Yuuri stops, pulls away looking breathless and beautiful and god, they’re sharing the same air. He’s flushed and he’s _right there_.

Victor is dumbstruck, staring at him while Yuuri shoots Phichit an affronted look. Any complaints he might make stutter and die as Victor contemplates running his tongue across Yuuri’s lower lip. Which he does, in fact, proceed to do.

There’s a strangled, gleeful noise from the other side of the booth, but he’s preoccupied with the way Yuuri’s eyes go wide, then dark, then _smouldering_.

Victor’d feel like a giddy teenager, except he doesn’t ever remember feeling this way before. The bone-deep ache, the tiredness melting away to something new, something electric underneath. He’s trapped in Yuuri’s warm gaze, the shy crook to his mouth, the less shy lean of his hips.

There’s nothing else for Victor to do but smile at Yuuri and think  _god, I love you_.

He thinks it again, then again, a record on repeat all the way from the restaurant to the taxi, where the driver barely gives them a second look as they curl around one another in the backseat. Yuuri is almost glowing under the trail of passing lights, half cast in shadow; Victor’s fingers itch to touch again, mouth feeling cold, bereft of words despite the mantra in his head.

He swoops down to press his giddy smile to Yuuri’s soft, considering one.

  
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

Yuuri bites his lip when he comes. It’s the sweetest, most maddeningly erotic thing Victor’s ever seen.

He’s kneeling on the floor of the hotel room when he learns it. Yuuri sprawled across the bed, beautiful, and bare, and Victor’s fairly certain he’s been in art galleries and not felt half as moved as he is with this - with Yuuri lying back, knees pulled up, bracketing Victor between his legs.

There’s something divine in the heave of his chest, in the tensing strain of his stomach muscles. The only light is the city outside, leaving him haloed in soft yellow, and Victor bows his head to press devotion into his skin; sucks, bites all the pent-up need, the desire he’s felt since that banquet nearly a year ago, into his flesh.

Yuuri moans, fists one hand in the sheets while the other grips the edge of the mattress near his head.

(Victor absolutely does not take a silent moment of pride that he can reduce Yuuri to this - that he’s nearly forty and can still take a top athlete apart with just lips and fingertips joined in liturgy between his thighs.)

He can’t take his eyes off Yuuri, even with his knees protesting as he tries to shift. Tries to move so he’s not pressing, painfully, against the heavy seam of his trousers - so he doesn’t come in his pants like a teenager. It’s hard to think past the shivering, twisting want that accompanies each hitching sound Yuuri makes, even with his hip aching when he thrusts, absently, into nothing.

 _I love you_ , he thinks, sliding his hand up and over. Somewhere his fingers find Yuuri’s, twine together and squeeze. He brushes his thumb across a knuckle at the same time as his tongue curls round the head of Yuuri’s cock.

Yuuri gasps a sound that could be Victor’s name, and Victor is helpless but to look. To watch the tug of a wet, bitten-pink lip between teeth and meet Yuuri’s eyes scorching, coal-dark, down at him as he tenses, then  _throbs_ on Victor’s tongue with a soft, keening sound.

It’s agonising to see; his heart jumps in his chest with the soft thump of Yuuri falling back onto the bed. He’s harder than he can ever remember being, and so he swallows, pulls back slowly. The weight of Yuuri lingers on his lips like a kiss. He presses his forehead to his hip, mouths wetly at the crease of his thigh until Yuuri tugs at the hand still entwined in his.

Victor goes easily, lets himself be pulled up without a word. Rumbles contentedly in the back of his throat as he climbs awkwardly onto the mattress and perches over Yuuri. Yuuri squeezes Victor’s hand and whispers - whipcrack loud in the thick quiet of their room - “please.”

And that’s all he needs - all he’s ever needed from Yuuri, those big, dark eyes and an earnest plea - to kiss him, his lips, his cheek, his neck. He brings their joined hands up and kisses each of Yuuri’s fingers, gives him an honest, lopsided smile; Yuuri smiles back, lets his free hand creep up his suit leg to tug at his belt. Reluctant to let go of his hand, Victor lets him fiddle with the clasp, until Yuuri huffs, gets that impatient little crease between his brows  - he swoops down and kisses it, as he releases his hand and finally, finally undoes his belt, drops it somewhere over their heads onto the hotel floor.

He sits back on his heels and waits, patient, for Yuuri to fidget underneath him and then - and then both of them grab at his flies at once, earning a grumble (Yuuri) and a breathless laugh (Victor), before Victor swats him away, unzips without ceremony; Yuuri’s eyes are black holes, boring into him, tracking his hands as he pulls his pants down, as he grips himself and gasps at the shock of touch.

Victor wonders, as he slicks himself up under Yuuri’s heavy stare, when was the last time he felt alight without even touching someone. Got drunk on a lover’s presence alone. Finally, he pushes into him, sways forward into Yuuri’s orbit like an inevitability, and Yuuri says his name, grasps for his hand again, linking fingers and feelings in one gesture.

It’s not a choice to move now. Victor’s wanted for so long, imagined so many scenarios, and with Yuuri so pliant, so warm and real in his arms, it’s less motion and more a dance. He pushes, Yuuri gives, with a sharp, little sigh - still a little too sensitive, still so determined to push his own limits out of stubbornness, rather than a need to impress. Yuuri curls up toward him, writhes back onto Victor when he rolls forward like a wave.

It’s not a choice, but it’s bliss, and Victor can’t speak - can’t find the words to begin to tell Yuuri just how fucked Victor is.

It’s almost too much, and he braces himself with his free arm by Yuuri’s head; bows forward with effort, looks up at the window behind them for relief from the pressure surrounded him - crushing his heart even as it spreads, infinitely, outwards, with each coiled charge of movement. Victor stares without seeing the twinkling lights outside, instead settles, glazed, on their shapes reflected back at him.

He’d happily go blind is this were the last thing he saw: the elegant spill of Yuuri’s shape in the window, twisting around the shadow of Victor’s dark suit cradled in the vee of his thighs. Their reflections are smudged, no more than ghosts trapped in the glass, but the rock of his hips against Yuuri’s is a clear flicker of heavenly - as is the curve of Yuuri’s throat as he tilts his head back, hums happily and slides his hand under Victor’s shirt to rest, flat, across his chest.

It’s a considering gesture, one tempered by the uncertainty of purposelessness. Victor lets his gaze fall from the window and back down at Yuuri looking up at him from under his lashes.Victor knows it’s indecision rather than rejection making his hand shake against Victor’s heart - that he wants Victor close, wants him at arm’s length, all at once. Victor understands. Now that he’s got Yuuri spread out underneath him (finally, _finally_ ) he’s not entirely sure he knows what exactly to do with him.

So he pours himself into Yuuri. Marvels at how they slot together so sublimely; takes in the slackness of Yuuri’s jaw, the glistening trail of his cock, already half-hard, rubbing against his belly. Victor swallows, wants to see if he can make Yuuri come again, to make him spill over himself and whimper obscenity into the heady space between them.

He pulls Yuuri closer with one arm wrapped round his thigh, pushes his legs wider and rolls into him. There’s a fleeting thought of wanting to possess, to get under his skin, get inside him like no one else can. Victor knows he shouldn’t think of Yuuri with other people ( _other boys at university - built and tall and vital, maybe a beautiful girlfriend, who has a degree, and youth, and soft, red lips on her side_ ) while he’s gasping so wonderfully, each sound wrenched from him with Victor’s thrusts, but it comes, unbidden to the front of his mind.

He shoves the thought aside and Yuuri rolls his hips uselessly underneath him.

Victor has to bend low, press a shaky kiss to his brow and murmur nonsense - too taken with him, with this, to last much longer. Yuuri’s hand is a burning brand on Victor’s chest, fingernails scratching in rhythm with the creak of the bed beneath them. (It’s been a while since Victor’s had anyone to get a noise complaint with, and he idly delights at the thought of achieving that feat with Yuuri, who’s responding louder, bolder.)

He’s unravelling, thrusts sharp and punctuated with Yuuri’s half-aborted, increasing in pitch moans - he’s hard proper now, and Victor moves his hand from Yuuri’s thigh to wrap around his cock, to stroke in a tortuous glide. He has to close his eyes and bury his face in Yuuri’s neck, lose himself in the hymn of pleasure, of their bodies moving together.

Yuuri is perfect - _perfection_ \- and Victor curses, comes with an electric shock of need. Shoving mindlessly as he spills for what seems an eternity - where time and absence were his previous bedfellows, and Yuuri is a far more receptive, enthusiastic partner to being filled.

Yuuri jerks and when Victor grinds impossibly deeper, gasps like he’s been shot. Victor opens his eyes in time to watch him come across his own belly, his chest, in time to catch the look of utter surprise cross his face, undercut by the cut of his teeth against his bottom lip. Victor can’t help the twitch, the final, thick pulse of wetness that punches out of him.

Victor Nikiforov, former world champion, disappearing by degrees, just made Katsuki Yuuri come - _twice_. 

He can’t stop the dopey smile spreading across his face and he presses it to every part of Yuuri he can reach - kisses lazily, lingering, like it’s only natural his mouth be pressed to Yuuri’s neck and chest and face. Yuuri stares, dazed, upwards, laughs little huffing laughs under Victor’s onslaught and only looks back at him when he shifts, pulls out; they share a moment, Victor’s breath catching at the trickle of his come out of Yuuri, Yuuri reaching out to press two finger tips to his cheek, turning his gaze back up at him. He finds his own giddiness staring back at him, and sits back, shucking off his jacket and feeling so young, so in love under Yuuri’s appreciative gaze.

Victor manages to remove his shirt, the rest of his clothing, before he flops down next to Yuuri on the bed - gathers him into his arms and rests his head onto Yuuri’s chest without preamble. Yuuri is solid and real and he threads his fingers through Victor’s hair, toys for a moment at the whorl that has Victor pouting, prodding at himself in the mirror in the morning.

Now, he just presses into Yuuri’s touch and “hmm”s.

Safe, grounded in the realness of this, of him, he feels on top of the world - he feels like he could sleep for a week.

Yuuri’s heartbeat under his ear is a lifeline, and it pulls him under before he even realises he’s drifting.

  
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

 

 

Victor snores.

Yuuri finds it soothing. It’s evidence that this isn’t a phantasm, some trick of his mind:

Victor Nikiforov, the Living Legend, the charming, beautiful man plastered across posters and magazines (a good number of which reside under Yuuri’s bed in Hasetsu) doesn’t snore. Probably doesn’t even breathe.

Victor, the man who gets teary-eyed at soap opera weddings, who insists that Makkachin understands  when Yuuri compliments other dogs in her presence - who seems to believe that Yuuri is worth something - worth everything - snores like a chainsaw.

Yuuri shifts round so he can look at Victor’s face, trace the lines, the creases with his thumb. He presses fingertips to the line under Victor’s eyes; Victor’s eyelashes flicker, but he doesn’t wake, only burrows closer into Yuuri.

In the quiet cocoon of their room, Victor is perfect, and peaceful, and Yuuri lets his shaking hand rest in Victor’s hair (not thinning, but more grey than platinum.)

Yuuri slips into the dreamless sleep of the contented, Victor a secure, comforting weight on his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> So, I saw this simple request for smut and decided to make it A Thing. It came out very different to what I planned/expected, but hopefully you enjoyed The Thing it became. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


End file.
